Chaos, Panic, Pandemonium -- My Work Here is Done
by Troll Princess
Summary: Fate's got an assignment, and it involves getting one Xander Harris to a certain bar in Los Angeles ... BtVS\Angel Xover.


**Author's note: I posted a few challenges on the Buffy Discussion Forum, one of which was the following -- **

_The Incarnations of Immortality Challenge -- And no, it's not a Piers Anthony crossover thing. Write a story in which Fate, Death, Time ... whatever (although not the Incarnations versions -- your own versions) show up in Sunnydale. _

And of course, being almost totally blocked on everything else I'm working on, I wrote this. And it's completely and totally finished. This story, anyways. Who knows? Maybe there'll be a sequel in the future. But for right now, enjoy. *g* Oh, and this has spoilers up to and including "The Body," and outside of Fate, everything else in this story is the property of Joss Whedon and his wild gang of writers. So suing me will only get you my squeaky squirrel toy. 

* * *

Chaos, Panic, Pandemonium -- My Work Here is Done   
by Troll Princess

* * *

Hi. You don't know me. I'm Fate. 

No, really. I'm Fate. You know, destiny. The future. Miss Big Plan of Tomorrow. That's me. 

Ain't I cute in this bod? I stole it off the side of a bus, actually. Some half-naked chick in a Tommy Hilfiger ad who probably won't be legal for pub crawls for another six years. I squished down the proportions some, for lack of a better word. I like the petite look. I can't do petite when I'm five foot ten. Doesn't work well. 

Ah, home sweet home. Okay, so it ain't home. But it feels like it. Every so often, someone's got a **DESTINY** -- and yes, the bold lettering and capitals are required -- and I've got to show up to toss it at 'em. 

Boom! You're a vamp now. Bam! You're really a great big old ball of energy. Poof! You're a Slayer. Congratulations. 

Not that I mind. But hell, I spend more time in this burg than should be legal. 

This time, it's ... wait, who's my assignment this time? 

Aw ... hell. 

These morons again? How many times do I have to deal with this crowd? I mean, between the four of 'em ... five ... aw, hell, I lost count. Between the lot of 'em, I should be getting frequent flier miles. 

A week ago, I get to show up and be all fate-y with the mother. Alakazam! You're dead. Well, okay, I should lay off on the complaints for that one. Cloak and Scythe Boy did most of the work on that one. I just steered the course for the rest of the gang. Scoobies, or whatever the hell they're calling themselves this week. 

Show up, change their lives, make 'em evaluate what good they've got. Like those girlfriends and each other and a whole bunch of candy-and-flowers Hallmark feelings that I'd rather not get into right now. 

So, which one I got to deal with this time? 

And I repeat. Aw ... hell. 

* * *

It's not like I don't like these people. I do. I got a thing for accents, so the Watcher and the bloodsucker have their moments. Like, when they speak. And the witches ... they're all sweet and innocent, and being Fate kind of gives you a weak spot for the sweet and innocent. And the ex-demon? Oh, she's a riot. It's taking her a while to get back into the mortal swing of things. I can get that, even if they seem to be having trouble with the concept. 

The one I like the least? The Slayer. Drives me nuts. Not only does she somehow manage to proudly call herself by the name of some awful '80s hair band -- and let me tell you how wonderful it felt to knock those dopes down a few notches at the end of their career -- but she's self-centered. Not in the same brunette-bimbo way reserved for that princess they used to hang with before she moved off to become an actress. But Barbie doll's got her moments. 

I like my assignment, though. Pretty eyes. And such an amazing ass. The words "quarters" and "bounce" spring to mind. 

And he's a walking font of emotion. Not something you see a lot out of in the male jet set, but apparently, he's got in spades. I love the emotional ones. They're fun to play with. 

So here I am, settling in at their little magic shop with a Arizona green tea, a Big Grab bag of Cheetos, and a copy of "The Prophecies of Nostradamus" -- my favorite comedy book -- just waiting for my guy to come strolling in. It's times like this I'm glad I'm the Invisible Girl. I doubt the Watcher treats this place like a Borders. "Yes, of course. Feel free to browse and get orange dust all over our expensive and dangerous magic books." 

I'd pay hard money to hear the Watcher say it out loud, though. Love that accent. Can't stress that enough. 

Ah, there he is. 

Well, lookie what I missed. I didn't get to see him the last go-round. What the hell's he been doing? Lugging around Toyotas? The guy's got 'ceps. Tri, and bi. And that stomach ... oh, I would kill small, cutesy bunny rabbits to see the six-pack under that T-shirt. 

Thank you, Big Guy. I love my assignment. Oh, do I. 

"Hey, Giles. Buffy around?" 

"No, unfortunately. I had hoped she would stop over for a little training, but I think she's having an off day." 

So they look at each other and go all pie-eyed, and here I'm sitting, playing a fake violin. 

"Oh," he says. Aw, poor baby. Look at that face. I don't need to be a mind reader to tell you what the guy's thinking of. He's thinking about the Barbie doll. My guess is Mommy getting bumped off didn't hit her all that well. Then again, it doesn't hit most people well. That's the _point_ of it. 

So Ripper is seeing the look, too. Oh, now with the concerned face. He does that well. "Is there something wrong, Xander?" 

"No, I just ... Anya mentioned something today, about something she did with Cordy in high school, and I started going on and on in my head, and I was wondering if anyone ... if anyone called Angel and told him that Joyce ..." 

Damn. Would you look at him? That took a lot of backbone, knowing the kid. I've been here enough to know he and the brooding soul-boy never really did get along. 

But see, this works. Now, I'm curious. What happens now, huh? 

See, half the Fate business is waiting and watching. Hanging out and finding out where the story's going. And at some point, you just know when to jump into the driver's seat and steer the marks around the curves. It's like spending your entire life watching a soap opera, and every once in a while, you get to jump into the TV and shout, "Your husband's sleeping with the maid, you moron!" 

It's fun. Weird, but hella fun. 

The Watcher's doing a pretty good guilty look. I'm guessing he didn't give the goody-goody a call and fill him in. "I tried to call them, but the number I have of theirs was disconnected." 

"You didn't try Cordy?" 

"I don't have Cordelia's phone number. What would I do with it?" He's dry. The wit part of him, that is. Dry wit hangs well on a Brit, don't you think? 

But hell, he's got a point. What were him and the Rodeo Driver supposed to do? Talk tweed styles for the fall? Xander gets this oh-so-serious expression on his face and says, "Someone has to make sure they know." 

And what do you know? He's got a point, too. 

* * *

So, now I'm in the car with him. 

He didn't take the ex-demon chick, which is good. I'd nudged her in the gotta-stay-and-work direction for the weekend, so I could have the big stud in the driver's seat to myself for a while. Yeah, I know. No touchy-feely on the job. But I can look all I want, and it gets damn difficult with a girly-type friend in the mix. 

Let's see. It takes two hours to drive to the city with all the brush fires and earthquakes and awards shows, and so far, we've stopped for Burger King, McDonald's, Arby's and Dunkin Donuts. The boy is a bottomless pit. Or, at the very least, his stomach is. 

Doesn't seem to hurt the packaging, though, so who am I to complain? 

He's singing along to some Stevie Wonder love song on the radio when he looks over and sees me. 

I swear, sometimes I just can't help myself. Like that time with Tom Cruise .. I just had to give him a little peek. I mean, just because I'm Fate doesn't make me have that fangirl hope in the back of my head that he'll take one look at me and flip. 

I know, I know. He's not the be-all, end-all of the boy part of the human race. But he's got an adorable body, and that quirky little smile, and the butt, and I am such a little Hopeful Harriet that I flashed him. 

Okay, hello? You dropped something in the gutter. Oh, look, it's a brain. 

He sees me, all right? For just a split second, I'm there. I'm in the car. Drinking a Coke. Stealing his fries. Harmonizing with Stevie. And then I'm gone. 

Best thing I can say about the guy? No freaking out. Double-takes it, but what am I supposed to expect? He handles it, though. The car doesn't wiggle that much. 

But it does wiggle. Heh. I love being a distraction. 

* * *

Okay. Hmm. _So._

The address is a pit. 

No, really. The address is a pit. A big old hole in the ground. The last known address of the vamp dick is a hollowed-out shell. Wow. Now, there's some soap opera for you. 

I set up against the car, leaning up against it with my arms crossed and looking mighty fine, thanks for your concern, while Big Stud surveyed the damage. Hell, I could have told him the building wouldn't be here. I could have told him a lot of things, actually. "Could" being the operative word. 

But until I was told, I was just supposed to take up space and look pretty. So, I did. 

"Fuck." 

Whoa. Harsh language from the Peanut Gallery. I'm stunned. This is -- or rather, was -- a family establishment. 

He runs his fingers though his hair. He does it when he's nervous, confused, whatever. It's got its charm. 

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now?" 

Good question. Hey, Big Guy, what's next on the agenda here, huh? 

Nothing. No answer. Not like I'd expected one. I'd expected the sound of silence, and had gotten it. And how I'd gotten it. Did you know the Big Guy's got Simon and Garfunkle as his hold music? Thinks it's cute. 

He's the Big Guy, though. You love it whether you want to or not. 

Big Stud's getting all hot and bothered now, all corn-foozled, not knowing what's the next step in the stairwell. Just looking at him, I can tell there's a long car ride in my future. Doesn't bother me any. I like my car rides in big cities with cute guys. 

But he turns around to get into the car, and I could have sworn that this time, he sees me for sure. 

He stares at the spot I'm standing in, and I squirm, 'cause hell, this whole flashing the mortal world is supposed to be subliminal and all that jazz. I'm not supposed to be getting the look-see from the mark. 

I know he can't see me now. I've got the switch in my head in the off position. I know there's no way the stud could be seeing me. 

'Course, he still looks over at the spot I was standing in when we drive off. 

* * *

You know those four were supposed to be friends? 

Those four -- the stud, the Watcher, the witch, and the Barbie doll. Them just seeing each other across the street in passing would have saved a couple of lives. Get them together in the same school, and there's a few more people. Make 'em allies, and hundreds live. 

Friends, and it's going into the hundreds of thousands. 

You know that old commercial, right? They show it sometimes on TV Land. "I told two friends, and they told two friends ..." Yeah, well, those four rub off like ringworm. 

Look at the L.A. gang. Angel and the Charlies, I've been calling 'em. Can't help it, I like the punk ring to it. The bloodsucker used to snog with she-who-hangs-out-in-graveyards. The spare Watcher ended up with them. And the princess wasn't core, but she was a Scoob, no doubt. And look how many they've saved. I show up a few too many times for that crowd, too, by the by. 

My point -- and I'm not talking 'bout the one the haircut covers up -- is that here I am, in the same car with a guy who've saved more people than some retiring cops, and he's sitting on the other side of the car thinking about how useless he is. 

Look, I don't need telepathy to tell me what that expression on his face is. He's driving around L.A., looking for the Charlies, with his elbow resting in the open window and his hand on his cheek and his jaw set, and he's thinking, "They sent me because they don't need me." 

I'd hand over firstborn children I'm never going to have to make him take that droop off his face. He's going to steal Brood Boy's gold medal in the sport yet. 

Aw, take a chance, girl. You know you want to. 

Not that he sees me, but I put my hand on his thigh. Ooo, nice. Hard. He really has been working out -- 

Focus, dollface. 

I think I can see it. The calm that usually floats over them when I touch 'em. That trust. Sometimes, I really hate that, you know? Seeing trust on the face of someone you're about to make walk in front of a moving Honda, or in the eyes of someone you're about to have turned vampy. 

My thumb moves back and forth, as if he's going to feel it. And I stare right at him and say, "You're needed more than you know." 

And it doesn't even hit me until I say it, and until I see the slightly happier look in his eyes, that maybe that's why I'm here. 

* * *

But it's not. 

No, my job -- or at least one of them -- starts right about the time the stud has to take a piss. 

We're as in the middle of nowhere as you can get in L.A. -- some back alley he turned into by accident -- and he's standing over in a dark corner and I really, really have to stretch my legs. And that's when I get the urge. 

The urge to toy with him. 

Oh! Okay, stop it, all right! You keep dropping your mind in the gutter like that and it's going to get covered in wet leaves and gum. 

Personally, I'm thinking, this is a bad time. Changing a guy's destiny in the middle of a pee break can't be the best thing for him. 

Oh, wait. Apparently, it is. So sayeth the Big Guy. 

Gotta say I'm shocked, though, when the Big Guy addeth, "By the way, girlie, do it in the body you've got, would you?" 

See, the Fate thing? It's mostly realizations and decisions. You hop into someone's head and drop off a revelation -- i.e. "What do you mean, your sister _and_ your kid?" -- or steer 'em the way you want 'em to go. Hardly ever does the Big Guy suggest you stick true to form. 

But when He does, you listen. 

I hide in the shadows first. Can't have Big Stud over there seeing me appear out of thin air. Might spook him into a Ben Stiller moment with his zipper. 

I whistle before I walk out, giving him just enough warning to cover up the merchandise. Hmm. Pity. I wanted to peek. 

So he's covering, and he's looking back, and there goes the eyes. All wide, taking in the tight red dress I'd dreamed up, soaking up the view. Aw, yeah, baby, that's it. Drink it in. Aw, yeah. 

Damn, I'm getting way too much pleasure out of this. 

He tries to look suave, relaxed flirting, a little swagger, the usual nervous oh-look-a-cute-girl stuff he usually spills. Would have bagged me a long time ago if it weren't for that pesky clause about not messing with the mortals outside of work. 

"Hey," he says, that quirky smile in full effect. I could get used to this. Thank the Big Guy I kept the demon girl at bay. 

So, I say, "Hi," going for the husky-voiced thing. And that goes over well, and as I pass by and do that wiggling thing guys like watching from the back, I know damn well that he's going to follow me exactly where he's supposed to. 

To that karaoke bar I oh-so-adore. 

* * *

There has to be some sort of bad taste going on that would make the Big Guy drag the stud into the karaoke bar when he's supposed to be looking for the Charlies to tell them that Barbie's mom got bumped off. Then again, good reason overrides bad taste every day of the week, and twice on Arbor Day. 

He doesn't see me after he goes inside. Of course, that's because he can't. 

In fact, doesn't matter if my internal switch is on or off -- there's only one guy I know who can see me regardless, and that's the owner and manager of this fine establishment. 

He's over at the bar now, nursing a Seabreeze and suffering through a Kevari demon who had apparently been living under the delusion that he was Mariah Carey and would hit those high notes if it killed him. I happen to like the guy a lot. Not many demons have the gift, but the ones that need you to sing to use the gift -- they're always fun for parties. 

I keep an eye on the mark, currently adjusting to the "Hey, this is a demon karaoke bar" situation, but head towards the Host. I wait until he's nearly deaf with some horrible note out of the demon intended to shatter glass, and I put my hands over his eyes and say, "Guess who?" 

I shock him into a spit take. Heh. I love my job. 

Hosty ... he's a great guy. He sits here all day and night and taps into that twinkly outer edge of everybody's aura that just ain't set yet. The fate part. You've got settings in that twinkly outer edge. Me? I take the settings, and I set you up with a future. 

But right now, I'm bugging the green guy. 

So anyway, he turns around and sees me in all the magenta splendor I've got going on, and he just kvelts all over the place. "Well, of all the karaoke joints in all the world," he says with a growing smile. 

He's appreciating the merchandise. The bartender's not seeing a damn thing. Hosty notices and waves the guy off. 

Meanwhile, I do a spin on the catwalk for him, showing off the bod. "So, what do you think?" I say. 

He puts his drink aside, and spins invisible me around just to confound the onlookers. Not that he cares, either. "I think you need to stop stealing your faces from bus photos," he says. "You look like an eating disorders patient, doll." 

I shrug, and sidle onto the stool next to him. "Doesn't matter, does it? No one gets to see the package but the mark. Well, and you," I add, flashing him a smile. 

The Host takes up his drink and takes up residence on that stool again. "Speaking of which," he asks, "which one's the mark this time?" 

I open my mouth to say his name, to point out the big stud at the other end of the bar getting himself a beer he's not legal to have anyways, but I freeze. Hosty recognizes the look, and groans nice and loud. "You need me to read some poor guy's future and rain on his Labor Day parade, don't you?" he asks. 

It takes me a sec to recover, but I do it as smoothly as always. "No," I say with a growing smile. "Trust me, you won't be raining on his parade." 

* * *

Bloody hell. The stud's an Elton fan. 

Hey, I got nothing against the Yellow Brick Road guy. And I can't say I'm all that surprised that of all the songs he'd sing of Elton's, he goes to the dancer one. Hell, why not? It's a singalong song. Plus, nothing makes a song slicker than when people sing along to it in a Cameron Crowe movie. 

He's not half-bad, though. I've been in this bar before, I know I said that. I've heard vamps and other gross little monsters wailing like newborn Alka demons and referring to it as singing in this joint. And every time, I've envied the Host for not succumbing to the urge to rip off their arms and beat some sense into the morons with the bloody stumps. 

Me, though ... when it comes to the big stud, I'm biased. He's maybe middle of the road. The singing in the shower type. But I can give him a little more credit and say he's good enough to sing in a wedding band. What can I say? I'm a sugar momma. 

Hosty's soaking up the show, and I can see the intensity in his eyes. That look he gets when he knows he's about to deliver a whopper of a destiny? He's got that in those beady red eyes of his right now. 

He keeps looking from Big Stud up on the stage to me, sitting cross-legged on the bar now sipping a hard lemonade. I'd be looking at the stage, but I've got the view memorized. 

The stud finishes up the set, accepts his round of applause, and it suddenly hits him where the hell he is. Oh, shit. He's drunk. At least a little, but then again, it's usually what it takes for karaoke. He pales up some, gets off the stage as quickly as possible and signals for the bartender to set him up again before I steer him directly into the stool right next to me and the Jolly Green Demon next to me. 

Hosty and I watch him shake his head, groan and lie his head down on the bar. "I can't believe I did that," he says to himself. 

The Host and I exchange a look before he leans towards the stud and pats him friendly-like on the arm. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. You were incredible. Cher should still sound so good." 

Xander lifts his head up slightly, says, "Uh, thanks, but I don't swing that way," and finishes getting his head up just in time to get the full-on Host-With-The-Most-Green-Skin treatment. He visibly gulps. "Or that way." 

"I'm not hitting on you," the Host says, flashing him an admonishing look. "Although I get that a lot. Maybe I should turn it down." 

I can't resist. "You should," I say. "You're practically the Queen of the Damned as it is." 

He gives me a playful smack on the knee, and I can tell there's a "Gee, aren't we catty?" in my future. Luckily, the stud doesn't notice the smack, just the Host and his odd behavior. 

"No offense, but is there a reason you're talking to me?" 

"You don't know much about this place?" One look at Xander's face and he adds. "Wait, don't answer that. And never play poker." Now's the time when he gets all philosophical. It's usually a hot summer day's ice cream treat to watch. "You're here because you're lost. And before you say anything, I meant both literally and figuratively. And no, I'm not trying to get you to call my 900 number." 

Stud's confused, but just clear enough to say, "Do I ever get to talk in this conversation?" 

I shake my head even as the Host says, "Sorry, but no." He reaches out and forcibly shakes hands with Xander. "Congratulations, big guy. You're the owner of a bouncing baby destiny to protect mankind. Hope you're up for the challenge." 

I'm not about to stay for the rest of the conversation. Well, unless I can do so in the stud's lap. So I slide off the bar and sidle past the two and let the Host drop a big old future in Xander's lap. Something about a sword and a magic spell ... or something. I don't know, I don't pay attention to the details. I just call 'em and leave 'em. 

I make it about ten feet before I turn around and head back. 

I was visible again. I could tell from the appreciative looks. The Big Guy gave me an order. Another one. He says, "Go on. Rock his world." 

So I do. I walk right up to the guy, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him the way I'd wanted to. Hell, if I couldn't play with him outside of work, I might as well play with him as much as work would allow. 

And he let me. Oh, wow, did he let me. 

Hosty's watching the whole thing with thinly veiled amusement, liking this show a hell of a lot better than the Elton John thing a little while back. I don't blame him. 

I pull back, give him a peck on the cheek, and say my "Thank you." And then I walk away. 

So in the past few seconds, the stud's gotten some crazy destiny dumped on him, and some weird girl just gave him a knee-melting, jaw-dropping kiss for no reason and then left. As I walk away, I can hear him saying exactly what he was thinking out loud. 

"Oh, yeah. Fate hates me. Fate really hates me." 

Gee, you'd think so, wouldn't you, doll? 

* * *

If I would have known what it was going to do ... well, hell, I still would have done it. He'd still had his hooks in the demon for a reason. Damn fine kisser, that one. 

But that kiss ... there was a reason the Big Guy wanted me to sucker-punch him in the romantic sense. 

Because they didn't belong together. 

Oh, they'd had their time. But the egg-timer's just gone off, and they needed something to break the waves. Hence, me. Cute little old me, the strange but buff girl, no pun intended, who appeared out of nowhere, kissed good old Xander, and gave him a happy. A big enough happy to make him think, "Maybe Anya and I ... just shouldn't be Anya and I." 

Don't know about you, but I'm hearing the Hallelujah chorus. 

Don't know why, though. I know the stud's supposed to be with someone else, just don't know who. And I know Anya's supposed to be with someone else, another of the spare Scoobs. That one with the "grrr" thing once a month. It's supposed to be some big, long, drawn-out romance things that even they don't see coming. I hate those. 

Ain't my problem, anyhow. Right now, I'm off to ... well, nowhere. I'm sticking to L.A. for now. Something about that spare Slayer and a knife fight gone bad in a jail courtyard. All I know is, somewhere in my future is a happy, normal adolescent girl, some fifteen-year-old princess with best friends and a loving family and cool digs who I've got to dump some rotten, no-good vampire-slaying destiny on. 

So, what's the mark's name this time, huh? Hmm, opne the envelope ... and the winner is ... 

Aw ... hell. Not these people again. That's it. Big Guy, if you're listening, do me a favor, huh? 

Is there any chance we can keep the Summers girls from hogging all the goddamn destiny? 


End file.
